Dangerous Temptation (21 page)

"No," she denied now, flicking a glance towards him. And then, "Aren't you going for your shower? It's getting late."

"To hell with the shower," he muttered harshly. "We need to talk, Kate. And I don't mean about trivialities. When are you going to tell me what I've done?"

She sighed, allowing the sound to escape her lips lightly, though he sensed she wasn't feeling that way at all. But he couldn't go on behaving as if it would all turn out all right tomorrow. Who knew but what tomorrow might never come?

"I don't think this is the time to have any kind of meaningful discussion," she declared after a few moments, and he noticed how she avoided looking at his bare chest. If she wasn't scared of him, she was scared of something. Clearly, his uninhibitedness had shocked her, and he wondered what she'd do if he got completely undressed.

Putting his thoughts into action, he snapped open the button at the waist of his trousers and lazily hooked his thumb around the tab of his zip. He was wearing silk underpants, for heaven's sake, he assured his reluctant conscience, though his reviving arousal made a mockery of that defence.

Her reaction was swift and predictable, but although he had expected her to express some objection, he was not prepared for the horror in her eyes. "I'll leave you to it," she said tightly, heading unmistakeably for the door. "I'm sure you would prefer to be alone."

"Shit!" He swore angrily, but somehow, perhaps because of his longer legs, he reached the door when she did and slammed his fist against it, keeping it shut. "Just a minute," he said roughly. "Do I really disgust you that much? Or can I believe you've never seen me naked before?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Her denial was automatic, but somehow he wasn't totally convinced by her words. He was beginning to wonder if they'd ever consummated their marriage. Dear God, he couldn't believe that! He doubted he could have kept his hands off her for three days, let alone three years!

"Then what's wrong?" he persisted, aware that when her eyes dropped nervously to his gaping zip, his body responded accordingly. He could feel his hard arousal forcing the zip to part, and the pain was quite exquisitely intense.

"Must we go into this again?" she said unevenly, looking away, and he felt the urge to bury his face in the scented hollow of her neck. And not just his face, he thought bitterly. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to find his own heaven in the sweetness of her sheath.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't force her to have sex with him—even though he sensed she wouldn't stop him if he tried. With her mother within earshot, and her father and his cohort probably equally as accessible, whatever he did, she wouldn't run the risk of embarrassing anyone else.

And he found that knowledge a distinct turn-off. As far as he knew, he'd never had to force a woman in his life. He didn't want her that way; he didn't want to make love to a martyr. But there was more to her resistance than she'd admitted so far.

"All right," he said at last, moving away, aware that she remained where she was, frozen against the door. "If I'm wrong, there has to be another explanation. Is what you're not admitting the fact that there's someone else?"

Her silence was unnatural, charged, and when he swung round to face her, he found her pressing the back of one hand to her lips. Until that moment, he hadn't believed it. Even though he'd made the accusation, he'd been boxing in the dark. But the consternation in her face was unmistakeable. She looked—guilty, and he felt gutted at the thought of what it meant.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she declared at last, and he felt a sudden surge of anger at his impotence. Dammit, what did she think he was? Some idiot colonial who wouldn't care if she was unfaithful? Some hick country boy she could dupe without remorse?

"I think you do," he snarled angrily, thrusting his face into hers. "There's another man. Isn't there? Goddammit, is it someone I should know?"

Caitlin caught her breath. "There's no other man," she protested, her face a picture of bewilderment now, and if he hadn't been so incensed, he'd have realised she was telling the truth. "Honestly, Nathan, I'm not that kind of woman. You've always said I was…"

What?

He stared at her in raw frustration when she didn't finish the sentence, but whatever she had been going to say, she had evidently decided she had gone far enough. Pressing herself back against the door, she took her lower lip between her teeth, and no amount of silent prompting on his behalf could persuade her to go on.

He wanted to shake her then, was tempted to shake her, only he was afraid that if he touched her, he wouldn't be able to stop. Her tension had made her vulnerable, and he was intensely aware of her femininity. Beneath her cream silk blouse and the ridiculously formal waistcoat, her breasts were heaving anxiously against the cloth.

The sight of the dusky hollow, just visible above the vee of the blouse was electrifying. Just a glimpse of her flesh and he was again at the mercy of his sex. He wanted her; he didn't care if she'd been unfaithful, he just wanted her. She was his wife, and she had no right to keep him at arm's length.

"If—if you think threatening me is going to prove anything, forget it," she got out eventually, and he realised she had completely misread the way he felt. Across her throat, he could see a fine vibration, and there was a feathering of goose bumps up her neck.

"Dammit, Kate," he groaned as guilt made him run restless fingers into his hair. He could feel the same covert trembling within himself. "I'm your husband. I'm not a monster. I'm not going to hurt you. If you're afraid of me, for God's sake, tell me why."

His words, obviously as unexpected to her as they'd been to him, seemed to disarm her. No doubt she'd anticipated another angry outburst, and his hoarse plea for understanding seemed to neutralise her response.

"I'm—not—afraid of you," she protested, though her eyes were still wary. "And I want to help you, if I can. But you can't expect to absorb everything at once."

He drew in a breath. "And what I said?" he asked, unable to leave it be. "About there being someone else. You swear it's not true?"

"I swear—I've not—I've never been unfaithful to you," she said. "Now, do you think we could talk about something else?"

He gave in because it was easier, and because, quite frankly, he didn't feel as if he had the strength to go on. All this emotion was exhausting. He could feel his temples throbbing. God, what he'd really like to do was go to bed.

"Are you all right?"

Caitlin's voice seemed to come from a great distance, and he realised he was wearier than he'd thought. Actually, he was feeling rather dizzy, and he sought the edge of the bed behind him, sinking down onto the mattress and burying his face in his hands.

"Nathan!"

She was really concerned now, kneeling down beside him and pressing the back of her hand against his neck. Why couldn't she have done that earlier, he thought, when he might have had the strength to do something about it? Right now, he couldn't have made love to her if she begged him to do it.

"I'm okay," he said, forcing his head up. "But—look, do I have to go down to supper? If you don't mind, I'd rather go straight to bed."

Caitlin got to her feet. "Well…" She glanced towards the door, gnawing on her lower lip as she did so, and he decided that whatever she decided, he was staying here. "I suppose I could explain you're tired," she added. "I know Mummy will understand. It has been the most strenuous day you've had so far."

"Hasn't it?"

He was sardonic, and as if coming to a decision, Caitlin nodded. "All right," she said. "I'll do it. Of course, Daddy will be disappointed. But there's really nothing spoiling, is there?"

"You tell me," he said, flopping back against the pillows. "But—you're your father's daughter, aren't you? I'm sure you'll handle it with tact."

Caitlin stiffened. "Is that a criticism?"

"No. Just a statement of the obvious," he answered wearily. "Now, be a good girl and help me get undressed."

"Help you get…"

Caitlin's lips parted as once again she failed to complete her sentence. Clearly, she had not anticipated that requirement, and he could see her unwillingness to touch him warring with the concern in her flushed face.

"If you'd take off my boots," he amended gently, taking pity on her confusion, and he saw, through narrowed eyes, the sudden relief that filled her eyes. "That's great," he added gratefully, when she obeyed his instruction. "Why don't you go and have your shower? I'll use the bathroom after you've gone downstairs."

He awakened to the awareness of a warm body beside his in the bed.

For a moment, the feeling was so pleasant, he didn't attempt to understand where he was. He just lay there and let himself enjoy it. He didn't even try to comprehend what it implied.

But on this occasion, his memory was all too capable. The reason why the ceiling looked unfamiliar, why the walls with their subtle shading of cream and gold roses didn't arouse any sense of recognition, was obvious. He was at Fairings, his father-in-law's country house in Buckinghamshire. And, ergo, the woman lying beside him was his wife.

The thought was startling, hinting as it did at an intimacy she had hitherto denied. Half-disbelievingly, he turned his head on the pillow. But he wasn't mistaken. It was Caitlin curled beside him in the bed.

She was still asleep, and his breath escaped him on a low sigh. After last night's altercation, he'd been sure she'd find somewhere else to sleep. What had happened? he wondered. Had her mother forced her to accept her responsibilities? Or had his own weakness aroused her compassion? Because he was still recovering from his injuries, did she believe herself immune from any unwelcome approach?

As he looked at her, he couldn't deny a sense of incredulity. He still found it amazing that this beautiful creature was his wife. For all he felt a strong attraction to her, she seemed such a stranger. But a stranger he desired, more with every passing day.

She was lying half on her back, with one arm extended above her head. She was breathing deeply. Not snoring exactly, but her breath sighed softly between her teeth. Her lips were ever so slightly parted, and there was an appealing lack of tension in her face.

And then he noticed something else, something he'd have noticed right away if he hadn't been so entranced by her vulnerability. But, without make-up of any kind, she was so deliciously natural, and he had had the most ridiculous urge to wake her with a kiss.

Ridiculous, because he was no Prince Charming, and he doubted Caitlin would welcome his efforts if he did so. And now, as common sense reasserted itself, he took in what she was wearing, and his yielding sense of beneficence melted away.

He wondered if she could have borrowed the garment from her mother, though from what he had seen of Mrs Webster thus far, he would not have believed she would have such an item in her wardrobe. Mrs Goddard, then, he thought, his resentment increasing at the thought of Caitlin asking the housekeeper to help her out. Surely no one else would own a flannelette nightgown with a high, round collar and long sleeves buttoned at the wrist.

Fury gripped him. The idea that his wife should have chosen to wrap herself up in such ugly nightwear in the hope of spiking his interest would be laughable, if it didn't anger him so. Didn't she realise that a man liked nothing better than a challenge? That no amount of protection would put him off?

He scowled. His fingers itched to tear the offending garment from her sleeping figure. He wondered if she was still wearing her underwear, as well. He knew he'd get a great deal of pleasure out of exploding the myth she'd created, and he'd like to see her face when she realised she'd made a mistake.

Then he became aware of something else, something he'd also overlooked upon wakening. He was still wearing the trousers he'd been wearing the night before when he flopped down upon the bed. He must have fallen asleep while Caitlin was taking her shower. And all she'd done was bundle him under the quilt when she came out.

He now understood his own feelings of discomfort. He'd been aware of the constriction ever since he opened his eyes. But he'd been so excited to find his wife sharing the bed with him, he hadn't thought about what he was wearing. As he hadn't worn any pyjamas at the apartment, he hadn't given his own nightwear a thought.

It was unbelievable that in this day and age a woman of Caitlin's experience should behave so—childishly. Couldn't she at least have pulled off his trousers before rolling him into bed? Of course, she'd have been afraid that if she did that, he might wake up and get the wrong impression. She was scared to death he'd take advantage of her weakness.

Being careful not to wake her, he turned onto his side and propped his chin on the palm of his hand. Was she really his wife? he wondered, feeling again that sense of alienation he'd hoped would have subsided by now. God, she looked more like Mama Walton at the moment. But her appearance of innocence didn't please him. He didn't want to feel sorry for her. He wanted to sustain his anger until she awoke.

Yet his feelings towards her were as complex as the rest of this situation. If only he knew what had happened to cause the rift between them. Because, whatever she said, however she denied it, she was not comfortable with him. God, his lips twisted bitterly, this latest development was proof enough of that.

A strand of her hair lay on the pillow beside him, and giving in to an urge as primitive as time, he carried the silken tendril to his lips. It smelt of warmth, and cleanness, and a faintly citrus essence, which he guessed she'd used to wash it. When he touched it, when he tasted it, it was every bit as appealing as he'd expected.

Taking the strand into his mouth, he bit into its fine texture, enjoying doing something so intimate to her without her being aware of it. He wondered how she would feel at the thought that he had been making subtle love to her. It was a tantalising thought in the present circumstances.

But when he spread the strand of her hair between his fingers again and saw how damp his tongue had made it, he realised that playing with her like this was causing havoc with his own sexuality. Beneath the confining tightness of his trousers, his erection strained the seams of his silk briefs, and with a feeling of resignation, he put his hand beneath the covers and released his taut arousal from its restraint.